Routine
by cowbellgalore
Summary: France/femEngland: France and England can do fluffy mornings too -whether they know it or not is debatable-. M rated only for implications


**A kinkmeme deanon -3-**

England rolled over in bed, crinkling her nose and hideously overgrown (as France put it) eyebrows at the sunlight pouring through a crack in the curtains that she regretted not closing the night before. She turned, this way and that, trying to find a shady spot and made herself comfortable once again when she found it.

Something brushed against her foot, the one that was sticking out from under the sheets and she kicked. Again, she felt a soft, feather like touch against her foot and scowled, eyes still closed and kicked until her foot was back under the sheets, unconsciously giving a self satisfied smile.

And then something brushed against her back, the feeling seeping through the thin fabric covering her torso and she just about lost it, as much as one can lose it when one is half asleep.

"Dammit, France, go away," she slurred into her pillow, nuzzling against it with a frown. She hoped France would listen to her for once and let her doze for at least the rest of the day. Last night had been… energetic, to say the least.

Entirely amused at the situation, France suppressed a childish giggle. He had awoken about an hour ago to the face of a naked, snoring England and had to use all his willpower not to touch her inappropriately or stroke he face lovingly (either would have earned him bodily harm). Since the sun already looked like it was beckoning France to wake up, he decided he may as well make some breakfast for the two of them.

He knew England wouldn't appreciate it and grumble about his wasting time walking to the bakery to buy fresh bread. Then she would moan and complain that the strawberry jam was too sweet, even though she would dump three sugar lumps into her tea with milk and then roll her eyes at France's bowl of coffee. And she would finish with rambling on about the last time she had a decent Full Breakfast while France humoured her by nodding and trying to hide the mirth on his face behind his hand until England noticed and started grumbling about _that_.

It was becoming a routine whenever England stayed in France and she seemed to be doing so a little more often now. Maybe she was bored, maybe she was lonely, maybe she just really liked pushing France off the bed in the middle of the night or poking fun at how he laid out his clothes in the morning or taunting him whenever Pierre shat on his shoulder.

Or maybe she liked the sex, as hard as that is to imagine.

Maybe she even loved France, as crazy as that sounds.

But whatever the reason, France liked the routine and he liked having England around to annoy and cuddle. And, dare he say it, he quite liked listening to her grumble, as long as he could comment and rile her up of course, because she was _so damn beautiful_ when she lost control, in the bedroom or otherwise.

So he sat on the edge of the bed, having stripped to his underwear after returning from the bakery and leant over her body, nosing up and down her spine, pleased his button up shirt from the night before was her choice for pyjamas.

England twitched, France's long soft hair tickling her and his rough stubble scratching only a little uncomfortably against her skin through the shirt. Blindly she lifted a hand and made a sweeping motion behind her, hoping to land a hit somewhere along the way.

But France knew this routine and leant back, grinning wolfishly when she rolled over and glared at him. Quietly he whispered a "_Bonjour, Angleterre,_" and dipped down to steal a kiss, England too distracted by trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes to push France away.

"Go away," she repeated, this time swatting at France's face unsuccessfully, eventually giving up and allowing herself (reluctantly) to be wrapped his arms.

He pressed his head to her chest, squeezing her a little tighter until she got the hint and hugged him back (with one arm, just to spite him). "I made us breakfast, you should get up and eat now."

Huffing, she adjusted her legs slightly, cringing a little at the feeling between her legs that was _wet_ and _cooling_ and _Christ, that's the last time I'm letting him come inside me_. She gave the top of France's head a dirty look. "I'm not getting up for the rest of the day. You kept me up until _four in the morning_, so I'm sleeping in and there's nothing you can do about it."

France lifted his head and looked at her, pleadingly, like a strange puppy with stubble. "But dear, the bread will get stale! And I woke up just to get it fo-"

"Well that's your own bloody fault. Now sod off, I'm going back to sleep." England attempted to roll over, but the weight of France on her chest kept her down. "Geroff, you great frog."

"_Non,_" he said with determination, "if you will not get up then I will come back to bed with you," and slid himself under the sheets and next to England.

She groaned in annoyance, "Oh for the love of… what about your 'precious' bread?"

"It will just have to go stale since you are so stubborn." He shuffled upwards until he leant against the headboard, pulling at England's arms until she gave up and rested her head against his chest.

Her nose twitched and she scowled, "I hate your chest hair."

France grinned, "That's not what you were saying last night."

She blushed, "What the hell are talking abou-"

"_Oh, oh, France! Oh your chest hair… It is so sexy-!_"

"Okay! Okay! Sheesh… Don't ever do that again, it's frightening how much you can sound like a woman."

He pinched her nose at that and she pulled on his beard in retaliation.

And then there was a moment where England wasn't annoying France or hitting him and where France wasn't taunting England or pinching her behind. They just laid there, England with her head on France's chest while she drew circles with a finger into the light coloured hair there, France playing with England's long hair that goes right down to her tailbone while he pressed his lips chastely to her brow, too softly to even be called a kiss.

And then that moment was gone when France made a lewd comment and England slapped him on the chin when she heard it.

England got off France. "No, no morning sex." She didn't look at him, knowing well enough that he'll pull that face where his eyes seem to get darker with want. "Last night was quite enough for me. I don't even want to see you for at least a month; I saw enough of you last night."

And they both knew that was a lie because she'll spend the whole day with him and even if she doesn't spend the night, she'll be back in the morning, maybe the afternoon if she's being stubborn.

France gently held one of her wrists in his hand and coaxed her to lie on her back so his shirt that's only half way done up does a terrible job of covering her breasts.

He leant down and nipped lightly above the left one where her heart was, under layers of stubbornness and pride and regret.

She let him kiss up to her neck, only doing so because both his hands were above the sheets and then one slides underneath and-

She grabbed it and brought it back up between their faces, green eyes burning with passion and betraying the frown on her face. "I said no morning sex."

Shrugging, France planted one more kiss on her cheek and snuggled under the sheets, cuddling up to England and trying to wrap his legs with hers. She wouldn't let him, but made no protest when he entwined their fingers.

"This is nice too," he breathed out before inhaling England's neck.

And she agreed, in her head, because she'd never say it out loud no matter how many times people prod her to do so and no matter how many times she actually wanted to shout it out.

They laid there until the afternoon when the sun no longer streamed through the crack in the curtain that she regretted not closing the night before and when the room is a lazy yellow hue. Then when lunch rolled around they stumbled out of bed together, England not bothering to put on pants and France not bothering to put on anything else, and slumped into the kitchen where France mourned for his bread and made a quick lunch which England found something to grumble about.

And then they had sex, because England never said 'no afternoon sex', which France pointed out and got a good whack on the head for while she gently sat on his cock.

And then in the following weeks it seemed like they had developed a new routine of France making lunch with England complaining about his menu choice and the vegetables he chose to put in the salad, until they fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and passion and maybe even a little bit of love.

England complained about it every single time, that her back was sore or that France had ruined her bunches or that France 'wasn't doing it right'.

And she may push him away by the face or threaten his balls or pull him forward by the chest hair, but not once does she deny spending the time with France.

**rereading it, I think my fingers are made of mush that kind of melt into the keyboard and into the fic**


End file.
